


Zevran vs. The Inquisition

by bamftastik



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamftastik/pseuds/bamftastik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran arrives in Skyhold chasing a rumor about the Inquisitor. Leliana attempts to keep him out of sight, but he still manages to encounter every member of the inner circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Leliana knew who waited for her, could hear his laughter as she ascended the stairs to the aviary. It was a sound she had not expected to hear again, but she could not honestly say she was surprised. They had kept in touch, her letters sharing perhaps more than they should have. The memory of those words stole the smile from her lips. This was not simply a visit from an old friend.

She found Zevran sprawled behind her desk, one leg dangling over the arm of the chair, speaking with Josephine.

"...of course I know it. In the South Harbor."

"Truly? What occasion brought you there? The clientele is typically somewhat less... noble. And not nearly so beautiful."

Josephine smiled. "Night-tide Chowder."

"Ah, yes. Whatever the fishmongers could not sell in the light of day, poured into a pot and boiled. Certainly best consumed under cover of darkness."

"A riot of taste that has intrigued even the city's most discerning palettes."

Zevran threw back his head and laughed. When he saw Leliana mounting the stairs, he rose smoothly to his feet. "Ah, my dear Leliana. The years have been kind."

"Zevran." She looked to Josephine. "Josie, this is—"

"Your contact in the Free Marches. Formerly of the Antivan Crows."

He smirked. "Not a title many can claim. I do thank you for aiding in my escape."

"So you said in your letter." Leliana gave Josephine an apologetic smile. "Would you mind if I spoke to Zevran alone?"

"Of course. I was just dropping off the evening reports. I did not realize you had company." She inclined her head, with a sly smile for the assassin. "If you wish to speak further, Leliana knows where to find me. I do get homesick."

"Naturally." He watched her go, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Once she was out of earshot, Leliana rounded on him. "No."

"Hmm?" Zevran pursed his lips, the very picture of innocence. He was one of her oldest friends, a former comrade-in-arms, but Maker help her if she wasn't tempted to throw him over the railing and into the study far below.

"Zevran, you know you can't be here. You need to leave."

"But I have only just arrived! And this Inquisition of yours is truly a sight to see. Your letters failed to do it justice."

"My people confirmed that you received your payment. And you did not come all this way to say 'thank you.' Why are you here?"

Sinking back into the chair, he shrugged. "Curiosity. You, my dear, are infamous. Even more so than before. And after hearing such... interesting tales, how could I stay away?"

Leliana lifted the elf bodily, pressing him back against the wall, her arm against his throat. And still he only smirked, arching a wondering brow.

"Oh-ho, so vicious. I see some of the tales are true. You have _changed_ , Leliana."

She leaned closer. "Whatever you think was in those letters..."

"Greetings from an old friend. Stories of a new hero. You do seem to have a knack for attaching yourself to those with power."

He pushed her gently away and she let him. Clasping her hands behind her, she paced back toward the table. "I never said—"

"I know what you said. Nothing explicit, of course, nothing that could be intercepted. But let us say that I now share your suspicions."

She sighed. "You shouldn't have come here."

"How could I not?" His smiled darkened. There was an edge to his voice, something deliberately cold. Whatever he truly felt at being here, he was working hard to hide it.

She turned to look at him. He had aged well, his pale hair long and streaked almost imperceptibly with silver, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered. But there was a weight on him that had aged him even further and, she expected, recently. A weight that she had put there.

"You should have told me you were coming." She sank into the chair, staring up at him. "How _did_ you get in?"

"I had expected the Inquisition's spymaster to know. But you are not my only famous friend. I once met the Champion herself."

"Hawke."

"A striking, if troubled, woman. Varric was more willing to accommodate an old acquaintance. Though I may have implied that the surprise of finding me here would be a pleasant one."

Leliana shook her head. "It's not that I'm not glad to see you..."

"Of course not."

It _was_ good to see a familiar face. As bad as the Blight had been, things had seemed... simpler then. But nostalgia was a luxury she could scarce afford. Not with so much at stake. "I understand. Really, I do. But you have to know that this is a terrible idea."

He turned away, resting his elbows on the railing and staring down into the library below. "It has been many years since I recalled my time with Clan Lavellan... and now I can think of nothing else. They say it is a new Blight, that an ancient Tevinter magister destroyed Haven from the back of an archdemon. Holes in the sky spilling out demons, the Chantry cowering with its head between its knees. Not to mention the perilous trek through freezing mountains to reach this inhospitable ruin. And yet here I am."

She leaned beside him. "You have never been one to run _toward_ danger. We already saved the world once. You do not need to do this."

His chuckle was bitter. "Do you truly think so little of me?"

"I will keep writing, tell you everything I am able. And I promise you, he is well protected."

"By the great Sister Nightengale? By this merry band of misfits that you’ve gathered? Another talent of yours, it seems."

"I didn't gather them. _He_ did. And they are good people, despite what you may have heard."

"Certainly. Though I suspect you have contingencies in place should events prove otherwise."

She sighed. "What is it you _want_ , Zevran? I am not trying to be cruel, but how did you imagine this would end? You know what's at stake. We can't afford—"

"To have the _Herald of_ _Andraste_ distracted. Yes, I know."

"He hates that name."

Zevran smirked, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. "They say the world may be ending, dear Leliana. And if that is truly the case... tell me, where else do I have to be?"

She lay her hand over his. "There are parts of the fortress that are still being excavated. I have a place, somewhere I go when I need a moment away. Let us speak there. We will... figure something out."

Taking him by the arm, she steered him toward the stairs. There were always eyes to see and not all of them were in her employ, but the library had been quiet when she passed, the mages studying there lost in their work. If they moved quickly, they could slip unnoticed through the dustier sections, follow pathways behind the shelves known only to a few.

Luck, though, was not with them. Rounding a tight corner, they found Dorian blocking the way ahead. His back was to them, one hand stroking his chin as he studied the shelf above him. Leliana pushed Zevran backwards, but it was too late.

Dorian turned on them, arching a curious brow. "Skulking amongst the annals of forgotten knowledge, Spymistress? Or perhaps you've finally tired of all that dreadful squawking?" He squinted at the shelf behind them. "I was unaware of your passion for... fourth age Dwarven architecture."

"And I thought that you were researching Corypheus' true name."

"Which would take me across the library and well out of the way of… whatever this is." He waved a vague hand in their direction. "Though I’m not one to judge when it comes to secret trysts with pretty elves." He winked at Zevran. "There's a spot over by magical theory which is particularly comfortable."

Stepping forward, Zevran ran a finger along the shelf that Dorian had been examining. "And yet here you are studying… ah, poetry." He tsked. "So much dust. Has the Inquisition truly allowed such things to be forgotten?"

"There is little time for poetry in war, I'm afraid. Though I was hoping to… oh, never mind. It's not important." Leliana had never seen the mage ashamed of anything, but his cheeks colored ever so faintly. Turning away, he went back to studying the shelf, muttering beneath his breath. "Why don't the Dalish write anything down...?"

Zevran laughed.

"You seem to be an appreciator of the art." Dorian studied him from the corner of his eye. "And you're an elf..."

"So they tell me."

"Do you happen to know any Elven poetry?"

Chuckling, Zevran shook his head. "Alas, no. But perhaps some _Antivan_ poetry—"

Dorian rolled his eyes. "I have heard what passes for poetry in Antiva."

"Then you know of its effectiveness, yes? Certain to suit the purposes of a handsome young man such as yourself. Allow me to prove my point." He smirked up at him, leaning close. "Now, if I were to say to you—"

Leliana pulled him back, putting herself between them. "Zevran, Dorian is the _Inquisitor’s_ paramour."

"Is that an official title now? I had thought we were trying to quash that little rumor." Dorian laughed. "Though I suppose it is rather a moot point after the Winter Palace. The evil Tevinter magister whispering in the ear of the savage Dalish apostate. And cutting quite the figure on the dance floor, I might add."

Zevran's demeanor had changed entirely. His shoulders stiffened, his salacious grin twisting into a tight-lipped grimace. When he spoke, his voice was cold. "You are a magister?"

"Ah, here it is. I know that look." Dorian sighed. " _I_ am an Altus. My father is a Magister. But you will see that my father is not here. And I am not in Tevinter." Eyes narrowing, he tapped at his chin. "Misamahl'len used to look at me like that. In fact, his mouth has the same little crease at the corner, that perpetual little smirk that means nothing but trouble for the object of it. Perhaps it is an elf thing?"

Leliana stepped round him, pulling Zevran with her. "As entertaining as it would be to watch the two of you discuss politics, we really must be going."

"Yes, yes, places to go, people to kill." Dorian waved a dismissive hand, but she could feel his eyes on them as they made their way down the stairs. She didn't know what he might puzzle out, but the mage was clever. And not one to hold his tongue around the Inquisitor.

Solas' study was mercifully empty and they stopped there, taking a moment before stepping out into the great hall. Leliana peered through the door at the visitors and hangers-on who regularly gathered to catch a glimpse of Andraste’s Herald. They stood clustered together in small groups, talking in hushed voices. Behind her, Zevran leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

"A _Tevinter_? Truly?"

"Yet you were more than happy to flirt with him yourself."

"You know I am long past standards, dear Leliana." Zevran sniffed. "Though I do feel suddenly guilty. And concerned. Do you recall the Tevinter slavers that we uncovered in Denerim?"

Leliana spotted Varric in the crowd. She caught his eye, gesturing him over. "Dorian's not a slaver. And he has left that life behind him." Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled back at Zevran. "They are actually quite cute together."

He didn't look convinced, but Varric was slipping through the door to join them in the study.

"I see you two found each other."

Leliana pursed her lips. "And I see _you_ are circumventing Josephine's visitor protocol. Again."

"What can I say? I have a soft spot for weary travelers. Especially when they had my back in Kirkwall. And I _did_ leave him in the aviary. You've got enough ravens up there, I figured no one would notice one Crow."

" _Former_ Crow," Zevran corrected.

"Yeah, yeah. You gonna fill me in on why you two are hiding out in here?"

Leliana peered through the door again. "I need to get Zevran out of here. Preferably unseen."

Varric smirked up at him. "What'd you do?"

He sighed. "That, my friend, is quite the tale."

"Hush." Leliana shook her head. "I just need to get him outside. Do you think that you might... cause a distraction?"

"Me? Address a room full of nobles? Get them hanging on my every word?" The dwarf smiled. "I'm sure I can manage something. Have I ever told you about the time Hawke rescued a runaway assassin?"

Zevran arched a brow. "' _Rescued_?'"

"That's the way I remember it. I'm sure you could have handled it on your own, if we hadn't come along."

"Save it for them." Leliana nodded out into the hall. "But... do not mention this to the Inquisitor. As a favor to me."

"Whatever you say, Nightengale."

Varric stepped out of the study and attached himself to the nearest group of courtiers with a greeting that made two of the women fall to giggling. As he steered them gently away from the door, Leliana took one more look around the hall. No one seemed to be watching them and any wandering eyes were drawn to the dwarf, now gesturing wildly as he regaled his audience with a new tale of the Champion of Kirkwall.

Tugging off her hood, she slipped it around Zevran’s shoulders, pulling the cowl down to hide his face in shadow.

He chuckled. "I suppose the formalities of subterfuge must be observed."

Taking him by the arm, Leliana hurried along the wall toward the exit. When they stepped out into the waning sunlight, she breathed a sigh of relief. Varric's distraction had worked. The court had been far too absorbed in their gossip to pay them any mind. But when she saw the woman ascending the stairs toward them, she froze.

Madame Vivienne had already spotted them, her lips pursing curiously. "Rising with the shadows, my dear? Not all of us practice a craft that affords us such luxury." She didn't address Zevran at all, but her eyes raked over him. "Are visitors not greeted by Lady Montilyet?"

"He is an old friend."

"A friend without a name, I see."

"A friend who values discretion."

Vivienne arched a delicate brow, smiling like a cat in a henhouse. Leliana was about to turn to threats, to play a card that she had been saving in case the enchanter became a problem, when Zevran wrapped his arms around her from behind and nuzzled at her neck.

Resting his chin on Leliana's shoulder, he smiled up at Vivienne. "Such trying times can wear on even the most beautiful of women. Perhaps when our Leliana is through with me, you too might find yourself in need of comfort, Lady...?"

Vivienne sneered. "There will never be a day so dark that I need comforting from an _Antivan_." She turned to Leliana, disregarding him entirely. "I expected more discretion, darling. Particularly from our spymistress. But if you wish to keep a lover, the gossip will not start with me." With that she brushed past them, disappearing inside.

Zevran still had his arms around her. Leliana cleared her throat.

Stepping back, he laughed. "An offer that I would make to you as well, of course. The best fictions are seasoned with fact, are they not?"

"No, thank you."

"Truly? The Pearl does not seem so very long ago. I seem to recall a girl who was particularly fond of—"

"Hush." She swatted at him playfully.

Leading him on, she skirted the walls of the courtyard, keeping well away from the evening bustle. Yet, as they reached the stairs to the fortress’ lower levels, they collided with Cassandra. The Seeker flushed, reaching for the book that she had dropped, but Zevran got there first.

Turning it in his hands, he grinned. "Ah, _Swords and Shields_. And a thrilling chapter, as I recall. Tell me, have you reached the part where—?"

"No!" Cassandra snatched the book back, staring sheepishly at the ground. "I mean... I've only just started. You will spoil it."

"How rude of me. But you have read the rest, yes?"

Reluctantly, she nodded.

"I have always found the Guard Captain's secret lover to be a bit – shall we say – unimaginative. But the scene in the first installment, when they meet in the abandoned—"

Cassandra's head jerked up, her flush deepening. Leliana hid a grin behind her hand.

"Truly a masterful stroke of storytelling, no? One of my favorites."

Tucking the book beneath her arm, the Seeker took a careful step backward. "...Mine as well."

"You are a woman of rare taste."

Cassandra looked between them, her glare daring either of them to repeat a word of this. Then, turning on her heel, she bolted across the yard.

Zevran clapped a hand on Leliana's shoulder, steadying himself as he laughed.

"I know what you are doing." She lowered her voice to a whisper, steering him toward a quieter part of the keep.

"You always were observant."

"You think they will tell him you are here. You _want_ them to tell him."

Zevran chuckled. "I gave you my oath, did I not? I shall not distract the Inquisitor from this tedious business of saving the world."

"You'll just distract everyone else. Zevran, you know this can't..."

She trailed off, glancing up as Blackwall crossed their path, carrying a fresh load of wood to his workbench.

Leliana inclined her head. "Warden."

Zevran turned on the man with a grin. "Truly, my friend? A Grey Warden, here? Leliana and I once shared a Warden. Surely you have heard the tale?"

The Warden scowled suspiciously and Leliana muttered an apology, dragging the elf away. Fortunately, they had nearly reached their destination. The walls in this part of the fortress had been hastily repaired, but the rooms were still empty, used only occasionally for storage. She shoved Zevran through a splintered door.

Once inside, she expected him to continue to argue, to make jokes, but he only sagged against the wall. The weight that she had seen before returned, his smile crumbling.

"Perhaps you are right. I should not have come here."

"Zevran..."

"We are not even certain, no? Clan Lavellan... perhaps it is only coincidence."

"It could be." She took a slow step toward him. "Tell me what you remember."

He smirked, but his eyes were distant. It was a long moment before he spoke. "My mother was Dalish, as you know. I will confess to a youthful fascination with the idea, a secret dream of running away to live amongst the clans. I had already served the Crows for many years when my chance finally came though, truly, I was little more than a child. But this was, of course, unknown to me at the time."

"What happened?"

"I snuck away, set off after a rumor. It did not take long to find them. And, at first, it seemed a tale worthy of the bards. A dashing rogue rescues a beautiful maiden from bandits and, in dispatching them, earns himself a place amongst her grateful clan. But gratitude sours quickly. In truth, I was barely tolerated. The girl I had rescued was First to their Keeper and, while I never doubted her affections, her people would never see me as more than an outsider. And I must admit that I was ill-suited to the life." He stared down at his boots. "Eventually... it became too much. And the Keeper knew what I was, knew what would happen if the Crows found me. She convinced me that if I truly cared, if I truly felt what I professed to feel, that I would leave. For the good of the clan."

Leliana was about to say more, to ask him to go on, but Zevran's head snapped up, his eyes fixing on something over her shoulder.

"Knows inside but doesn't want to. Knowing makes it hurt. Has nothing, no one, but knowing means losing more. Failed again... didn't know... too late..." Cole moved toward them on slow steps, his face hidden beneath his hat.

Zevran had gone rigid, his hand straying to the blades at his belt. Leliana put herself between them, but Cole wasn't through.

"Can't say the name. Tastes like confession. Misamahl'len. 'Child of the laughing blade.' Like regret and old hurt. She named him to remember. Misamahl'len. Mi—"

Zevran pushed past her, shouldering Cole roughly out of the way. Leliana gave the boy a level look, willing him to read her thoughts, to understand that helping would mean keeping their secret. Then she was running after Zevran.

She found him at the edge of the yard, leaning in the shade of a tree and watching the new recruits train. Cullen moved among them, providing instruction and encouragement.

Stopping beside him, Leliana sighed. "That was Cole. He is... not like other people."

Zevran didn't take his eyes from the men. "Your Commander Cullen was a Templar once, yes? He served in Kirkwall?"

"He did."

"And before that... was this the same Cullen who we encountered in the Ferelden Circle during the Blight?"

"Yes."

"The one whose solution was to cull the mages? How does he feel now, I wonder, serving beneath an apostate?" Ironic as the idea might have been, his brow was creased with concern.

"You worry."

"We have seen stranger things." Turning to face her, he folded his arms. "The boy – Cole, was it? He was not wrong. _You_ were not wrong. I should not be here. Simply allow me to resupply and then I will be on my way."

"You have come this far. Perhaps you should at least see him."

"Shall I kneel, hm? Worship at the Herald's feet with the rest of the faithful masses? We still cannot be certain—"

"We can." Leliana tried a thin-lipped smile. "You say that the girl you rescued was First to her clan's Keeper, that you met when you saved her from bandits. It is a memorable tale, no? And one that I have heard before." She shook her head. "The Inquisitor, he is... a private person. But I know that his father was not Dalish, that he never knew him. And I know that his mother was First to their Keeper before him."

"'Was...?'"

Leliana sighed. "She died. Many years ago. I am sorry."

Zevran sagged. "And there it is."

She gave him a moment. Then she lay a hand on his arm. "What do you want to do?"

Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers, his lips twitching into a tired smile. "They say you have a tavern here, yes?"

Leliana chuckled. "I suppose it as good a place as any. And there are upper levels where we can avoid a crowd."

Taking him by the arm, she hurried across the yard. When they reached the tavern, though, the door was already swinging open, narrowly missing them. Zevran collided with the figure stepping through it and it was all Leliana could do to keep him on his feet.

"Hey!" The Iron Bull glowered down at them. But Zevran's hood had been knocked back and when the Qunari's gaze landed on his face, his eyes widened. "Hey... I know you."

Zevran couldn't help but smile. "The Iron Bull, was it not?"

"You're that Crow."

Leliana did her best not to gape. "You two _know_ each other?"

The Bull grinned. "The merchant job, wasn't it? Treviso. I was still with the Bleeders then."

"And you still had two eyes."

"Yeah, I did." He laughed, looking to Leliana. "It was a hell of a fight. This merchant was dealing outside his guild, found out the Crows were after him. So he hired the Bleeders as extra protection."

"We slipped into his villa," Zevran added. "Imagine the sight. Darkened halls, the merchant nowhere to be found. And then we come upon an entire mercenary company, with a massive, bellowing Qunari at their center."

"Your people did all right."

"As did yours. But the point was moot." Zevran smirked. "The merchant had barricaded himself and his family deep within the compound. And by the time we found him, he was already dead."

"Stabbed by his wife."

"Who he apparently treated quite poorly. The commotion outside gave her the opportunity she had been waiting for." He chuckled. "These things do have a way of working themselves out."

Leliana looked between them. "So what happened?"

Bull shrugged. "No more merchant, no more job. But the Bleeders and the Crows had their reputations on the line. There were details that had to be worked out."

"Over drinks, as I recall."

"A _lot_ of drinks." He clapped Zevran on the shoulder. "So how've ya been, Crow?"

"As it happens, I am a Crow no longer."

"Huh. Didn't think they let people quit."

"It is a long story, my friend."

Bull grinned. "Drinks later, then?"

Zevran smiled back. "Perhaps."

With that, the Iron Bull left them, shouting to Krem as he strode across the yard. Tugging the hood back over Zevran's face, Leliana hurried him inside.

The tavern was less empty than she had hoped, but the upper levels were nearly deserted. She found them a quiet table in the darkest corner, admonishing Zevran to stay put while she went to speak to the bartender. His primary trade was in the eye-watering swill that the soldiers drank, but Dorian and Vivienne were getting their wine from somewhere. An agreement with the Orlesian traders was more likely, but it could not hurt to ask.

Fortunately, her reputation as spymaster and advisor to the Inquisitor preceded her. The barkeep was able to produce a half-empty bottle, complaining all the while about the difficulties of supplying such a thirsty army. Leliana supposed she couldn’t blame him for watering it down.

When she returned to the table, she saw that Zevran wasn’t alone. Sera had taken the chair opposite him and was leaning forward, gesturing wildly.

"…An’ then here comes Miss Prim and Proper, soaking wet with all her pretty ruffles dripping, but it’s the _Inquisitor_ so she can’t say nothing." She burst into a fit of giggles.

Zevran chuckled. "I did not realize the Inquisitor was such a troublemaker."

"Oh, yeah. Ask anyone. Most of ‘em will say the whole _Inquisition’s_ trouble. But _those_ people are too busy fighting each other to actually _do_ shite. That’s why I’m here. To help people, the ones that get forgotten when the whole world goes ass-up."

Zevran looked up as Leliana approached. "Ah, Leliana. Sera here mistook me for the Inquisitor. Amusing, no?"

"Some elf all hooded up like he wishes he could disappear, sittin’ alone in the dark all weight-of-the-world, blah, blah, blah…" Sera shook her head.

"Sullen, is he?"

" _Yeah._ You haven’t met him yet, or you wouldn’t be asking. Too elfy for his own good most of the time, too. But he’s not so bad. Even smiles sometimes, especially since he and Dorian started having it off with each other."

"Ah, yes. The Tevinter."

Sera rolled her eyes. "Sure, he’s from Tevinter. And the ‘Herald of Andraste’ is an elf. But it’s not like any of us get a choice where we come from. It’s nice to just see people being _people_."

Leliana smiled, catching Zevran’s eye. "Sera, if you wouldn’t mind, my friend and I have business to discuss."

"Right. Knifey-shiv-dark and all that." She bounded out of the chair, leaning over the railing to get a look at the door. Iron Bull was returning, followed by Josephine and Cullen. "Varric’s got another game going. Wicked Grace. You coming?”

Leliana slid into the vacated chair. "You go on without us. And Sera…?"

"Yeah, right. You’re not here. I never saw you."

As she left them, Zevran slid closer to the railing, craning his neck to see. Varric had managed to gather most of the inner circle, or at least those most likely to give up their coin. The dwarf himself was the last to arrive, with the Inquisitor in tow.

Zevran’s breath caught. For a time, he said nothing, but he didn’t take his eyes from the elf. “He is tall. Like his mother. And strikingly handsome.”

Sitting back, Leliana smiled over her cup. “Told you.”

“Why did you not contact me sooner?”

“Because the Herald of Andraste bore a passing resemblance to an old friend? Perhaps I was only seeing what I wanted to see. And I needed more information, particularly if I was going to commit my suspicions to a message.”

Below them, the companions were settling around a long table, with the Inquisitor at their center. Misamahl’len was smiling, laughing at an exchange between Dorian and Josephine.

“He seems well liked.”

Leliana nodded. “He is, even if he will not admit it himself. When I first met him, he wanted nothing to do with any of this. It is not a burden many could bear, but the progress that he has made is remarkable. You should be proud.”

“It had nothing to do with me.” When he turned to look at her, his expression was pained. “But I see now. It is a delicate balance, what you have achieved here. What _he_ has achieved. I would only get in the way.”

“Zevran…”

“What? He has not needed me so far.”

“An excellent point.” Solas stood beside them. Leliana had not heard him approach, nor had she ever seen the mage in the tavern before. He could be unnervingly quiet when he wished, which seemed to be most of the time.

Zevran stared up at him with narrowed eyes. “And who are you?”

“An irrelevant question. You are leaving, are you not?”

He glanced at Leliana. She knew that look. Solas often lacked for tact, but he was making assumptions, attempting to take the decision away from them. Telling Zevran he couldn’t do something was the quickest way to make him want nothing else. It was a trait the Inquisitor shared.

She would have to broker a peace before things escalated. “Solas is an expert on the Fade. He saved the Inquisitor’s life when we first found him.”

“And has been whispering in his ear ever since, no doubt.”

“Someone has to.”

“You do know who I am, yes? How?”

“I possess eyes.” Solas sniffed. “And there is much that I have seen in the Fade, enough to know that this visit will yield nothing of value. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Oh? Have mages learned to see into the future? Do tell me my fortune.”

He chuckled. “What fortune is that? The fortune of a slave? Of a killer? Of one who abandoned their child?”

Zevran thrust his chair back from the table, the sound drawing a few wondering glances from the tavern below. Varric looked up and caught Leliana’s eye, loudly calling out for another round and drawing the party’s attention back to their game. It was up to her to separate the two elves, now standing with barely a hairsbreadth between them.

Solas didn’t flinch. “Would you deny him this chance to become something better?”

Leliana put a hand on Zevran’s arm, drawing him away. It was the first time he had resisted her. She put her other hand on Solas’ chest, urging him backward.

“Solas, it is late. Would you really have our guest brave the mountain passes in the dark?”

After a moment, he subsided. “I suppose you are right. But see that he is gone by morning.”

Zevran smirked. “Or what? You will tell the Inquisitor?”

Solas only stared, his glare promising more than words ever could. As he left them, Leliana realized that she was still uncertain what the mage might be capable of. She hoped she was not on the wrong side of him when it came time to find out.

Zevran watched him go. “Charming.”

“He means well.”

“Don’t we all.”

He had turned away again, his eyes straying to the game below. The Inquisitor was on his feet, shrugging out of his tunic while the others hooted and applauded. It seemed the stakes had been raised and their leader was the first to fall.

Glancing back, Zevran gave her a sad smile. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then I should like to be alone.” Picking up the wine bottle, he turned it in his hands. “Out of sight, of course. Simply tell me where to go.”

Leliana nodded to a nearby door, one that would take him out onto the ramparts unseen. Rising smoothly to his feet, Zevran drained his cup and tucked the bottle beneath his arm. Then he bent low, laying a fleeting kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you, Leliana. Truly.” And with that, he was gone.

 

 

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	2. Chapter 2

It was cold, but at least he was drunk. Hitching his cloak tighter around him, Misamahl'len mounted the stairs to the ramparts. He had left the others in the tavern, their game of Wicked Grace waning, again coming down to a standoff between Cullen and Josephine. Perhaps he should be concerned that his Commander didn't learn from experience.

Dorian had been disappointed, but he knew enough not to question his wanderings. Misamahl'len had come to enjoy walking the ramparts on quiet nights like this. The walls of the fortress were so high, so formidable, but up here the sky was still big, still open, still free. And if the soldiers on duty noticed the sway in his slow and shambling steps, they pretended not to see. He was, after all, the Inquisitor. He could drink as much as he pleased.

There was a ruined room atop one of the towers, too far gone to be repaired. The roof and outer wall had fallen away to reveal sky above and mountains below, while the remaining walls provided shelter from the worst of the wind. Guards huddled here sometimes, warming themselves around the brazier at the room's center. The Iron Bull also claimed to meet his serving girls up here. He liked to joke that the stones had been torn down not by years of disrepair, but by the fervor of their passion.

Tonight, though, the room was empty. Misamahl'len stepped to the edge, staring down into the blackness as the wind whipped at his hair. He supposed he should be grateful that the others had let him win back his shirt. The Commander was one thing, but it wouldn't do to have the _Herald of Andraste_ running through the keep in nothing but his skin.

He sighed, muttering a curse beneath his breath.

That was when he heard it, soft like the whisper of the wind, but out of place, unnatural. Someone was laughing in the dark. Laughing at him.

Misamahl'len whirled, light arcing from his fingertips. He cast it into the brazier, the dying embers flaring suddenly to life. The shadows receded, deepening in the corners of the room, but he could see the figure hiding amongst them now. It was hooded, the face obscured in darkness, leaning against the inner wall with folded arms.

"Who's there?"

Again, there was only a whispered chuckle. But then the man stepped forward, his hands empty and held out before him in a gesture of peace. "Grateful as I am for the warmth, I should very much like to avoid being set on fire." He spoke with an accent, in the same lilting tones as Josephine.

"Who are you?"

"A guest of the Inquisition. A guest of yours, it would seem. You are the _Inquisitor_ , yes?" He put strange emphasis on the title, a familiar sort of disbelief.

"That's what they say."

The stranger had an easy manner, but Misamahl'len watched him warily. He was slight of build – an elf – though by his speech he was clearly not Dalish. There was a careful stillness to him and when he moved Misamahl'len could hear soft creak of leather, see the firelight reflecting off of the steel at his belt. It wasn't particularly strange for anyone to go armed these days, but he doubted the man was a mere refugee.

He nodded at the fire. "You're not going to get warm standing over there."

"On the contrary." The stranger picked up a bottle, shaking it to reveal the dregs of a night well spent. "Although... if I might approach, Your Excellence?"

He groaned. "Call me that again and the answer's no. In fact, I'll freeze you where you stand."

"And already we turn to threats." The elf tsked, but came forward slowly. Some of the light reached beneath the hood now, revealing a flash of teeth as he smiled. With a nod, he handed over the bottle.

Misamahl'len eyed it warily. "No, thank you."

"You think I am trying to poison you?" Without waiting for a response, the stranger burst into laughter. It was a rich sound, wild and unapologetic.

"Well, you _are_ Antivan."

"Oh? And you are Dalish, are you not? Tell me, do you steal frightened children from their beds? Dance naked beneath the moonlight?"

Misamahl'len smirked. "It's been a while. But we've had some… trouble with the Antivan Crows."

"And you suspect I may be an assassin send to dispatch you, hm?" Again, he laughed. "Which means you know what comes of severing your ties to the Crows, of moving your business to – shall we say – an independent agent."

The man knew too much. Taking a step back, Misamahl'len drew the dagger from his belt. Magic would be quicker, safer, but steel was a language these people understood. "How do you know that?"

The stranger didn't move. He had gone rigid, staring down at the blade but making no move to defend himself.

"How do you _know_?"

He shook himself visibly. Misamahl'len could feel his eyes on him, but couldn't make out the expression beneath the hood. When the man spoke again, his voice was soft. "You accuse me of being a Crow and yet you are the one who carries a Crow's blade."

"What?"

"Standard issue, I'm afraid. See the waves on the blade there? Excellent for penetrating armor without leaving oneself disarmed." He reached out before Misamahl'len could react, twisting his wrist and snatching the dagger away. "A pity no one ever taught you how to hold it properly."

Again, he summoned flame to his fingertips, but the stranger ignored him, turning the dagger to the light to study it. After a moment, he chuckled to himself. "Why would you have such a thing?"

"I've always had it. It belonged to my mother."

"Did it now?" He spun it deftly between his fingers and tossed it from hand to hand. Flipping it a final time, he caught the blade, handing it back to Misamahl'len hilt first.

He blinked in disbelief.

"Take it. It is yours, as you said."

He did, tucking it back into his belt. He didn't need it – not with his magic, not with the things he could do – but he always felt safer having it with him. It had saved his mother's life once, before he was born, though he had never really believed the story. And in the end, it hadn't mattered, not when the humans came. She had still been clutching it when he found her.

"If you're not here to kill me, how do you know so much about our dealings with the Crows?"

"I am rather familiar with their ways. But the _Inquisition_ deserves someone more... attentive to your needs, someone more pleasant in their negotiations. Someone flexible. And remarkably skilled. Expensive, perhaps – this is true. But his work was worth the price, no?"

"You're him? Leliana's agent?"

"Indeed, I am." He dropped into a shallow bow.

"The same agent who killed one of our Crow contacts and nearly botched the operation?"

" _Nearly_. An operation which I then completed – at a reduced fee, I might add."

"And then you needed our help to escape the Free Marches. Remind me exactly what we're paying you for?"

Beneath the hood, his smile faltered, his tone growing flat. "Truly inspirational, Inquisitor. Is this how you rally your forces?"

"Pretty much." He shrugged, staring into the flames. "Why? Do you think you could do better?"

"Certainly not. But Leliana has told me of your exploits... and I know something of the burden of heroes. We walked with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight, she and I."

Misamahl'len looked up. "I'd heard that there was an elf among his companions."

"You say that with such disbelief."

"You should hear the things people are saying about _me_."

"People will always talk. But I saw how... difficult it was for him, how difficult it must be for you. I expect it always has been." There was a hesitance to the words that he had not expected, a sincerity that surprised him. Misamahl'len couldn't see the stranger's eyes, but he had turned his face away, staring out over the mountains.

"Yes, well..." He lifted his hand, rolling back his sleeve to reveal the mark. "The Hero of Ferelden didn't have one of these."

The elf stepped closer, reaching out a wondering hand before pulling it sharply away. "Does it hurt?"

"Not so much anymore. I've gotten used to it."

"I am sorry."

"Not your problem." He studied to stranger for a moment, but he had gone silent again, his easy demeanor changed. Misamahl'len shook his head. "Look, it's late. But talk to Leliana. I'm sure we can find more… work for you."

He chuckled. "Your Inquisition has no shortage of enemies. Though given your criticism of my previous performance, do you truly trust me with such a task?"

Misamahl'len smirked. "I don't trust anyone."

"A sensible attitude." Those shadowed eyes watched him still. "But know that I will not harm you. On this you have my oath. I am... at your service, Inquisitor."

He couldn't exactly say why, but he offered his hand. "Misamahl'len. Too many people call me 'Inquisitor,' even the ones who claim to be my friends."

The stranger hesitated. He was about to give up, to pull his hand away, when the man finally took it. "Misamahl'len. Of course."

It was only as he was descending the stairs that he realized the man hadn't given his name in return, that he couldn't recall it from the letters that Leliana had presented in the war room. He would ask her about it in the morning, but for now his head was spinning. He would be happy to simply make it back to his chambers before the cold and the drink weighed him down.

He found Dorian waiting for him, snoring softly on the bed with a book open on his lap. A smile tugged at his lips. He had never much cared for the room, with its confining walls and ruined opulence, but it had felt better since he'd invited the other mage to stay. A lot of things had.

Gently, he slipped the book from his hands. The title surprised him. Dorian had been studying Dalish legends, or at least the secondhand accounts compiled by a long-dead Chantry scholar. Interesting reading for a man who had likely never known an elf who wasn't a slave, who had initially assumed that their involvement was a one-time thing, a lustful manifestation of age-old hate. When Misamahl'len had extended the open invitation for him to spend the night, it was the first time he had ever seen Dorian at a loss for words. He understood the feeling. The idea that someone might be waiting for him, that someone cared to, was almost beyond belief.

And yet here was the proof, muttering sleepily to himself in Tevene and burying his face in the pillow. Shrugging out of his clothes, Misamahl'len nudged him gently aside and slipped beneath the blankets.

Dorian stirred, opening one eye. "Your hands are freezing."

"And your mustache is lopsided." He moved reflexively to smooth it, but Misamahl'len caught his wrist. "Leave it. It's cute."

"'Cute?'" Even half asleep, he managed to feign offense. "I don't believe I'll ever get used to these tastes of yours. Next you'll be decorating the entire keep in plaidweave."

"Don't tempt me." Misamahl'len nuzzled closer, pressing their foreheads together.

"Why, Inquisitor, I do believe you are drunk."

"It's been known to happen." He hesitated. In truth, he was _too_ drunk, too tired, too... unsettled. "Dorian?"

"Hm?"

"Would you mind if we just... slept awhile?" He rolled over, facing away.

Dorian responded immediately, curling himself around him and pulling him back into his arms. He chuckled, his whisper warm against his ear. "Honestly, _Amatus_ , I thought you'd never ask."

It was only then that Misamahl'len let himself relax, let the warmth wash over him and chase away the cold. Still his mind was restless, but he listened to the soft rhythm of Dorian's breathing, focused on the comforting weight of the arm draped across his middle. It helped, but he still had to face his dreams.

 

* * *

 

He woke calling for his mother. Light streamed in through the windows, though not the bright and glaring light of morning. The bed beside him was empty.

"Well, look who's awake." Dorian was sitting at his desk, a new book open on his lap.

Misamahl'len blinked, struggling to clear the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Nearly noon."

He bolted upright, but too quickly. His head was pounding. Groaning, he let it sink into his hands. "Why did you let me sleep this long? No one ever lets me sleep this long."

"Precisely."

Crossing the room, Dorian sat down beside him. Misamahl'len tried to wave him off, but Dorian ignored his feeble protests, his fingers tracing soothing circles in the elf's hair.

"And they did _try_. Our Ambassador was scandalized when I told her that petty land disputes between our new Orleasian allies could wait until _after_ the Inquisitor had put on his smallclothes. Unless you would prefer waking up to the Quartermaster's tantalizing tales of grain shipments?"

"No, please." He let his eyes fall closed, rocking with the soothing motion of Dorian's fingers. "Is that... magic?"

He chuckled. "Something like that. I _am_ rather experienced in the business of regrettable mornings after."

"Thank you. For letting me sleep."

"Were _my_ father to visit, I doubt there would be enough wine in all of Skyhold. I might even consider that swill the Iron Bull was trying to force on us last night."

"Your father?"

"I know that particular meeting was unpleasant. But yours seems congenial enough. I would not be opposed to a proper introduction, if you have a mind."

Misamahl'len turned to face him, catching his hands in the act of moving to his shoulders. " _My_ father?"

Dorian prodded him playfully. "I won't even judge you for being Antivan."

He pushed to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his head. The room was spinning, the floor threatening to drop out from under him. He braced an arm against the wall. "Antivan...? My _father_?"

Dorian's eyes went wide. "You didn't know?"

"How do you?"

"He and Leliana passed through the library yesterday. Of course, they said nothing and I could not be certain, not until I spoke with Cole."

" _Cole_ knows?"

"I don't see how that's surprising. The boy can actually be quite forthcoming once you learn how to ask the proper questions. Fascinating really—"

"Dorian!"

His expression turned sheepish. "If you were unaware of this little visit, it would certainly explain their behavior. Our Spymistress seemed particularly elusive, even by her usual standards." He looked up at him, shaking his head in disbelief. "You truly didn't know he was here?"

Misamahl'len sank down on the bed beside him. "I didn't— I _don't_ know anything. Not even his name. My mother... she told me stories, but that's all they were, wild tales to calm a fatherless child."

"What tales?"

He sighed. "He wasn't Dalish. The Keeper told me that much. My mother said he saved her from bandits, that my father was some great hero, that he left to protect us. From what, she never said. But even as a child, I could see the way the others looked at me. I was different… because of him. Maybe that's why I didn't try to find out more, to learn if any of it was true. But my mother... by then I'd realized that the stories were as much for her as for me." He stared down at his hands. He had pulled his dagger from his belt again, running his fingers over the worn hilt out of old habit. But now all he could see was the stranger's shadowed face, his sudden hesitation as he recognized the blade.

"Why not make himself known to you, I wonder?"

"Because that's what they do. They're spies, _assassins_." His head snapped up, his grip tightening angrily. "Because I'm the _Inquisitor_. They don't want me distracted. They want me _controlled_. Why should this be any different than anything else?" He flung the blade away from him, scowling as it clattered uselessly against the wall.

"Well, _you_ aren't as assassin. Clearly." Dorian had meant it in jest, but Misamahl'len was already on his feet, tugging on his breeches. Dorian lay a hand on his arm. " _Amatus_. Where are you going?"

"To speak with Leliana."

"Perhaps you should wait a moment, if only to—"

"I've _waited_ long enough." He pulled away, bending to retrieve his shirt.

Dorian clearly wanted to say more, but from his expression he knew it was useless. There was no comfort he could give, not for this. But Dorian would understand, probably better than most. At least Misamahl'len hoped he would.

He left him there, taking the stairs two at a time, still lacing his breeches. The supplicants crowded in the great hall took one look at his face and leapt out of his way. Even Varric stood aside, though he didn't look at all surprised. Solas watched him pass with narrowed eyes.

By the time he reached the aviary, Misamahl'len was running, but Leliana wasn't there. The courier that he stopped hadn't seen her and the mages in the library couldn't be certain whether she'd come or gone. Of the Antivan, there was no sign.

He replayed the conversation in his head as he searched. The man had recognized the blade, that much was obvious. Had it been his? Had his mother kept it? Had he truly saved her life? And if he recognized it, that meant that he _knew_. He knew, and said nothing. Why had he not—?

Coming down the stairs, he collided with Josephine, scattering the pages that she had been carrying.

"Inquisitor! I apologize, I—" She bent to collect her papers, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The Antivan who was with Leliana yesterday."

She pursed her lips. "I believe he accompanied the Chargers on their mission. Apparently he and the Iron Bull are old friends. They left this morning."

Gone. Misamahl'len sagged back against the wall, running a hand through his hair as he released her arm. Josephine seemed amused at the assassin's acquaintance with the Bull. About the rest, she was just as much in the dark as he was.

"Where is Leliana?"

"I was just on my way to see her. Is she not in?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps she is in the garden. You do know how she loves the roses."

"Right. The garden. Thanks."

Skyhold's garden contained a small Chantry, though it was little truly more than a cramped room containing a weathered statue of Andraste. A few refugees milled about inside, tending the candles that burned at her feet, but Leliana wasn't among them. Nor was she amongst the flowers, roses or otherwise.

He was about to give up, to return to the aviary, when he spotted a familiar figure across the courtyard. It wasn't Leliana, wasn't the Antivan, but something the man had said came back to him. Maybe they weren't the only ones who could give him answers.

Morrigan looked up at his approach, turning from watching her son as he wandered amongst the flowers. "Inquisitor."

"Lady Morrigan."

She smiled at that, as she always did, with just the smallest twitch of her lips. The woman had been born an apostate, just as he had, at least by the Chantry's definition. He wasn't certain he'd ever get used to his own title, let alone the way people suddenly hurried to scrape and bow. He wondered if she felt the same.

"Is there something you wish of me?"

He followed her gaze, watching the child. "I was hoping I could ask you something."

"Ask then, if you must."

"You say you knew the Hero of Ferelden..." He trailed off and she turned to look up at him.

" _Asking_ implies a question."

Misamahl'len sank onto the bench beside her. "I'm sorry, I was just... hoping to know more about him, about what happened during the Blight."

"You have bards in your employ, do you not? Surely they could tell the tale more skillfully than I."

"They weren't there. You were."

"Is it secrets you desire?" Again, she smiled to herself, her eyes straying to the boy. "Why is it, I wonder, that you have never asked about Kieran's father?"

"It seemed... personal."

"And yet you ask about him now."

He blinked in surprise. "The Hero of Ferelden? But I thought that he and Leliana were...?"

"Indeed."

She was being purposely cryptic, perhaps even baiting him. But of all the questions he could ask, only one came to mind. "Does he know?"

"Why should he not? Kieran's creation was the purpose behind the act."

They watched as the boy bent to study a sapling. Misamahl'len had never paid the child much attention, but there was quietness to him, a resigned distance that he recognized. "Then where is he? If that's his son, he should be here."

"Such things are rarely so simple. Whatever duties have taken the Warden so far afield, I trust they are bigger than even you or I. Did you not leave your clan behind?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"Nor, I think, did he. And Kieran has not suffered for his absence."

He shook his head. "You can't know that."

"My son is not so fragile as you might think. But perhaps it is time you ask your true question."

"Which is?"

She turned to face him. "I know who walks these halls, Inquisitor. It is a small mercy that I myself have been spared a reunion, but I hear he is making quite the impression on your inner circle. Were I you, I might worry about finding myself in the company of new brothers and sisters before too long."

Misamahl'len sagged, staring down at his hands. "You know?"

"I suspected from the moment we met."

That surprised him. Slowly, he raised his eyes. "You did?"

"I was overcome with the most peculiar urge to slap you, and yet all you had done was smile."

He laughed despite himself, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter now. He's gone."

"I would not be so certain. He is an infuriatingly persistent creature."

"So he's really that terrible?"

Morrigan smirked. "Insufferable, perhaps. Indecent, certainly. But I fear 'terrible' does him too much credit. The man is not overly malicious, nor even particularly skilled, as I recall."

"He kills people for money."

"And _you_ kill them because they stand in your way. Or do you truly believe you are the _Herald of Andraste_ , doing the Maker's work?"

He scowled.

"Most lack such noble motivation. Yet for one whose initial purpose was to dispatch the Wardens, the assassin proved remarkably loyal. And not so callous as he would have us believe."

"Then why wait until now to show himself?"

"Careful, Inquisitor. Should you continue to act the impudent child, your followers will no doubt take note." Morrigan shook her head. "He did speak incessantly – of his homeland, of his Crows – and yet _you_ were never mentioned. I expect your existence is as much a surprise to him as his is to you."

They sat in silence for a time.

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"That, I cannot answer." Morrigan pursed her lips. "I would only advise you not to discount him. Even an unwelcome tool can have its uses. But it seems we have more pressing concerns..." She looked past him, watching as Cullen hurried toward them across the courtyard.

Something was wrong. The Commander was breathless, his face pale. Misamahl'len rose to his feet.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Inquisitor..." Cullen hesitated, struggling to find the words. "The trouble in Wycome... It's your clan. Something's happened."


	3. Chapter 3

"Mmm, that does take me back." Stretching, Zevran rubbed at his wrists. "There's nothing like a good racking to clear one's head."

The Iron Bull gave a rumbling chuckle, moving to the end of the bed to untie the elf's ankles. They might have lacked the proper instruments, but a bit of rope and a little imagination had gone a long way. "Clear your _head_. Right."

"Among other things." Zevran pushed up onto his elbows, watching as the Qunari's thick fingers made short work of the knots. "You have quite the deft hand, my friend."

" _Ben-Hassrath_ , remember? We want you to talk, you talk." His brows drew low, his lips twisting into a smirk. "We want you to scream, you scream."

"So it would seem. But the Crows are trained to resist all manner of devilish torments."

"Uh huh. Personally, I thought you'd hold out longer."

Zevran laughed. "Then what would be the point?"

The Bull laughed with him, coming to sit beside him on the bed. "So how are you feeling?"

"You wish me to describe it? Were only I a poet, perhaps I could find sufficient words."

"You know what I mean. That merc nearly buried an axe in your back yesterday." 

"How fortunate that you were there to relieve him of it. And his arm." The Iron Bull was just as amiable as he remembered, and still an impressive specimen of Qunarihood. Certainly a welcome distraction, but Zevran knew that look. The man traded in secrets, after all. He forced a smile. "Such things are simply a professional hazard. Surely you know this."

"Yeah, and I know my men. I know what happens when they're distracted. It doesn't always work out." He inclined his head, his expression turning mischievous. "So, the Inquisitor... he's your kid, huh?"

_Braska_. Zevran didn't need to feign surprise. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Oh, come on. You spent half the job questioning my crew about him. I thought a Crow would be more subtle." He smirked. "Sorry, _former_ Crow."

"Should I not be curious about my new employer?"

"Sure. But this is personal. You wouldn't be the first admirer to throw yourself at his feet. Though, if that was it you wouldn't be here with me." The Bull shook his head. "Age is tricky with you elves, but with enough practice you get used to it. I'm guessing you had a run-in with the Dalish about twenty years ago?"

"Twenty-two." Zevran sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I am truly beginning to hate the _Ben-Hassrath_. No offense."

He was surprised to feel a sudden weight on his shoulder. The Qunari had slung an arm around him. "Didn't hear you complaining before."

Zevran smirked up at him. "Perhaps you should remind me of their virtues." He walked his fingers up the Bull's chest, tracing the bold lines of his tattoos.

But the Bull caught his wrist. "Later, sure. But don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Nowhere that comes to mind."

He shook his head. "Qunari are raised by the _Tamassran_. They train us, choose our mates, tell us who we're supposed to be. It's simpler that way, eliminates... problems."

Zevran pursed his lips. "Is this meant to convert me?"

"Your kind don't get that. You have to figure it out for yourselves. And the first place most people look is their parents. Everyone wants to know where they belong."

"So... you _want_ me to talk to him?"

The Bull shrugged. "Couldn't hurt."

"And yet the rest of his companions think it a terrible idea. Particularly my dear friend Leliana. And that mage, the one with the head like an egg."

"Solas." He chuckled, but his expression remained serious. "The boss... he's young, rough. And he doesn't exactly have it easy. Think about it. A Dalish Herald of Andraste, an elf making nobles bow, one mage trying to hold the world together while the rest of them are tearing it apart. The kid's confused, angry. And sooner or later, that's gonna cost him."

Zevran sighed. "I do not believe I am taking parenting advice from a Qunari."

"I know, right?" The Bull grinned, pushing to his feet and lifting Zevran by the arm.

"Such manhandling. And if I were to resist?"

"Just get dressed."

He did, slipping into his breeches and watching with some disappointment as the Bull tugged on his own. Then he was being shown the door and shoved through it with a firm slap on the rear.

"Remember, don't fuck it up."

Zevran couldn't help but smile, rubbing at the sting as the Bull closed the door behind him. Turning, he found Leliana hurrying toward him. If she was surprised to find him with the Qunari, she didn't show it. Her expression was set, and worryingly serious.

"He has quite the grip, that one."

She ignored him, taking him by the arm to drag him with her. "Zevran. Come with me."

"So I am to be thrown out into the cold after all?" He tsked. "Dear Leliana, so merciless."

She stopped, blinking at him in surprise. "You... do not know?"

Something had happened, that much was clear. His stomach dropped, his chest growing tight. "The Inquisitor, is he...?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "He is... safe. But we have had word of his clan."

"And?"

She sighed. "I am sorry, Zevran. They are gone."

"Gone?"

"They were camped outside of Wycome. There is unrest there, red lyrium, war. He— _we_ sent troops to restore order. And in retaliation, Wycome's forces turned on the Inquisitor's people." Her voice grew soft, her eyes roaming toward the walls. High and strong they were, but they had done nothing to protect him, not from this. "They wiped them out. There's no one left."

The words stung more than he would have imagined. Zevran had not known them well, or long, but for a time he had hoped the clan might be home. A vain hope, certainly, but there had been at least one Lavellan who accepted him and, for that, he would be forever grateful.

But it was easy to lose a home when you'd never had one. The Inquisitor, though...

"Where is he?"

"In his chambers. He won't speak to anyone, says he wants to be left alone." Leliana led him on, setting a brisk pace toward the great hall.

"Then perhaps that would be for the best."

She shook her head. "I wish we had the time, you know that I do. But with Corypheus—"

"Ah yes, _Corypheus_. I suspect he will pile the dead higher for every moment we dare stop to mourn."

She heard the coldness in his voice and stepped in front of him. "This is _war_ , Zevran. We've been here before. There is not an hour that goes by that I do not think of Justinia, but the best I can do for her is end this quickly. No matter what it takes."

Lifting her hand, he lay a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. "It hurts me to see you this way, truly."

She smiled, but it faded quick as it had come. "And he is the Inquisitor. He needs—"

"Me? _That_ is your plan?"

She sighed. "He has placed magical wards on the door. Solas and Dorian are trying to get through, but their last counterspell nearly set the drapery on fire. And he has stopped answering when we call." She gave him a desperate look. "I am out of ideas."

When they entered the great hall, they found it crowded with curious courtiers. Some looked their way, whispering amongst themselves, but they seemed blissfully unaware that the Inquisition might well be crumbling around them. Did they know what had happened? Or would a few dead elves be beneath their notice?

The door to the Inquisitor's chambers waited just beyond the throne. There Zevran hesitated, studying the great chair. He doubted he'd ever seen so uncomfortable a seat. But perhaps that was the point.

To his surprise, Leliana pushed the door open easily, leading him up a winding flight of stairs with windows overlooking the outer courtyard. "Lucky for us, he only warded the inner door. Josie would have a fit if our guests had to watch us begging him to come out."

"Scandalous."

The upper landing was crowded. Ambassador Montilyet and the sour-faced Templar stood to one side, watching as the Tevinter and the hairless elf studied the door.

" _Vishante kaffas_ , what have you been teaching him?"

The elven mage scowled. "I am... unfamiliar with this ward. I would suspect some Tevinter trick, but given that all you know was stolen those who you—"

"Maker's breath, would you two stop bickering? This isn't helping." Cullen pinched his nose, looking up in surprise as Leliana and Zevran approached. "What now?"

"I have come to offer my services, if I may." Zevran bowed, laying a kiss on the Ambassador's hand. But she had no smiles for him today. Her eyes went wide, her expression warring between dread and deference. What _was_ the proper protocol for greeting a chosen bastard's absent sire?

She settled on a simple nod. "Cullen, this is the man I was telling you about."

The Commander gave him an appraising glare. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Zevran shrugged. "Who can say?"

"No. Absolutely not." Solas stepped forward. "You must realize this is a terrible idea."

Josephine shook her head. "He has lost his _clan_ , Solas. Would it not help him to know that he has family left?"

They continued to argue, speaking about him as if he were not there. Even Leliana did not notice when Zevran crept back to examine the windows that they had passed. Peering through the glass, he saw that the Inquisitor's balcony was not so terribly far, the wall between pitted with ancient cracks and footholds. A spectacularly foolish idea, but it would not be the first bedroom he had dropped into unannounced.

Glancing behind him, he saw the others still gathered around the door. None had looked his way. Pushing open the widow, he felt for a handhold and swung himself outside.

The wind was there to greet him, cold and stinging and pressing him flat against the wall. Perhaps he _was_ getting too old for this. When had he last dared such a feat? Satinalia, was it not? He had had the benefit of a garden trellis, as he recalled, but the way back down had been far less graceful than his ascent. Fortunately, the lady's husband had been a poor shot, but in his haste to escape the thrumming of the man's crossbow, Zevran had neglected to retrieve his pants.

He did not want to think about how many years ago that had been. Still, the memory kept him warm as he climbed. By now he suspected the others had noted his absence, but they could do nothing now but wait.

At last he pulled himself up, vaulting over the rail and onto the balcony. The Inquisitor had left this door ajar and he slipped into its shadow, creeping into the room.

Skyhold's finest quarters did not disappoint. Repairs were still underway, but the ceiling was high, the furnishings the finest that the Inquisition had been able to recover. There was even an inner balcony, its massive, carved owls staring down at him with cold, stone eyes.

Misamahl'len lay on the bed, his back to him, his head resting in the crook of his arm. If he knew that he was there, he was doing a decent job of feigning sleep, but his shoulders were too stiff, his breath too ragged. Slipping from the shadows, Zevran leaned against the desk and cleared his throat.

The boy rolled over, his eyes going wide. For a time, he only stared. But then his scowl returned and he turned away again, muttering into his pillow. "How did you get in?"

Zevran waved a hand toward the balcony. "You should take more care with your windows, Inquisitor. Who knows what these freezing winds will blow in?"

"You... climbed the walls?" He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.

"There seemed to be a problem with your door."

His lips twitched, the merest hint of an unbidden smile. "What do you want?"

It was a fair question, and perhaps the one he dreaded most. Zevran shrugged. "A beautiful woman, or a beautiful man... a decent bowl of chowder... and a certain pair of Antivan leather boots that were lost to me in the years since the Blight."

Misamahl'len scowled. "Really?"

"They were a gift."

"You think this is a joke?" The boy sat suddenly, turning full to face him. His cheeks were flushed, his chin trembling with anger.

"If it is, it is a cruel one."

" _You think?_ You-you just show up here and then..." He choked, unable to get the words out. Zevran took a step closer, but Misamahl'len held up a hand, lightning crackling between his fingertips. He turned his face away. " _Don't._ "

Zevran let him be, his eyes wandering the room. On the floor not far from him lay a familiar blade, discarded and forgotten. He glanced back at the boy. No, not forgotten. Thrown away in anger. He moved on silent steps, picking it up.

That got his attention. Misamahl'len pushed to his feet. "Put that down. It's mine."

"Truly? I thought that it was mine." Zevran spun the dagger between his fingers, showing him the rough swirls picked into the leather of the hilt. "I made these marks myself, though it seems I am not quite the artist that I once believed." He flipped it again, showing him the blade. "The raider who made this notch was strong as an ogre, certainly more than human. A good fight, and I was lucky he did not disarm me entirely."

The boy leaned forward. Perhaps he had told himself tales, imagining the adventures that such a relic might have seen. But that spark of interest did little to tame his anger. The blade flared suddenly in Zevran's hand, glowing with a sudden snap of searing cold. He dropped it with a hiss. Misamahl'len was watching him still, his smirk wicked... and oddly familiar. Leliana had not been wrong about the resemblance.

"A neat trick."

"Thanks."

The dagger lay between them, but neither moved to retrieve it. The boy was certainly eager for a fight, and perhaps Zevran would deserve it. But he knew that sort of abandon, recognized the guilt behind it. It was not so long ago that he had felt the same. And his solution had been to run headlong at the Grey Wardens.

Misamahl'len sank back against the bed. "Fine. Keep it. It doesn't matter now."

Zevran tsked. "Such petulance." He stepped around the blade, moving to sit beside him on the bed. Sparks danced between the boy's fingers, but Zevran only shrugged. "Threaten, if you must. I have had worse, I assure you."

The light winked out and they sat in silence for a time, as far apart as the bed would allow. When the Misamahl'len spoke again, his voice was soft. "You heard what happened?"

"I did."

"There's nothing left, no one." He seemed to be speaking to himself, but Zevran was reminded of Cole's words. The strange boy had said nearly the same thing about him. It was a feeling he knew well.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Misamahl'len held up a forestalling hand.

"And don't say I have you. Because I don't." He shook his head. "What was Leliana _thinking_?"

"Do not blame our dear Spymistress. She no more expected my arrival than you did. In fact, she might well have tossed me out into the cold as soon as I arrived. Fortunately, I was able to appeal to her kind-hearted nature. Or what little remains of it."

" _Why_? You've heard what's happening, everyone has. Why would you want to be here?"

"You truly have to ask?"

Misamahl'len turned away, staring down at his hands. "And what about me? Am I supposed to be inspired? Trying to live up to some great hero of the Blight?"

Zevran threw back his head and laughed. He couldn't help himself. When he finally caught his breath, he found the boy watching him. "'Hero' is not a word one hears often in my line of work. Have you not heard the tale of how I first encountered the Warden and his companions?"

Curiosity flared behind the boy's eyes, as it so often did with children raised on stories of the Blight. But Misamahl'len made a good show of stilling his features, remembering to be sullen and distant. "No."

Zevran leaned closer, tapping the side of his head. "His staff hit me right here. Gave me quite the nasty bump before we'd even exchanged a word. And for that I count myself fortunate. I _was_ attempting to kill him, after all."

Misamahl'len blinked in surprise. "What? Why?"

"I was a Crow, he was a mark. And we had been well paid."

"What happened?"

"I failed. And, in doing so, found someone who the Crows could not touch. Failure, as you might expect, is punished severely. Permanently."

The boy was being drawn into the tale, despite himself. "They would have hunted you down?"

"As they did once before. The Grey Wardens are able to defend themselves. Would your clan have fared as well, I wonder, if I had brought the Crows down upon them? Far safer to return myself to the masters and hope they would forgive the restlessness of youth."

"But you knew they wouldn't kill you?"

"Oh, no. I expected they would. But it was worth the risk. As it happened, I was able to avoid mention of the clan entirely, was able to convince them to punish me in other ways." He stared out at the balcony, remembering. Of course, the very men who'd bound him had trained him to resist such torments, but it wasn't his training that had sustained him. When the screams had finally come, it had been her face that he'd seen, her face that he'd held to when his vision went black.

"That's why you left?"

He could feel the boy's eyes on him, but still he looked away. "I did not know about the rest. This, I swear to you." Slowly, Zevran turned to face him. "I would not make the same mistake again."

Misamahl'len shook his head. "I guess we answered your question. What would have happened to the clan. I left too, but it wasn't enough. There were still people who wanted to hurt them... because of me."

"Did you command those soldiers? Did you unsheathe their blades?"

"I sent _our_ soldiers in. If I hadn't, this wouldn't have happened. _That's_ why you can't stay. You know what we're up against, what happened at Haven. The only question is how long it'll be before I get the rest of us killed."

"Do you think the Hero of Ferelden knew what _he_ was doing?"

"It doesn't matter. He's _gone_. And your old war stories aren't going to help." He stood, pacing. "My clan didn't _do_ anything. They weren't a part of this. They didn't want to be. But it's everywhere. And the people close to me are the ones that are going to get hurt first. Last time we went out... they were following me. Everyone's always following _me_. And I led us right into a grove full of giants. I don't even remember what we were doing there. Chasing gold or lyrium or something. But I do remember how Sera's face looked after the fight. Bloody, bruised, almost unrecognizable. And Dorian..." He stopped, staring down at his hands. "When he fell, it all went black. I thought he was dead, didn't know if he'd wake up. I killed the giants, somehow, and we made it back, somehow, but it was _my fault_. I nearly got them killed. And the worst part? It wasn't the first time. And it won't be the last."

"So what would you do? Send them away? Face this Corypheus on your own?" Zevran shook his head. "I should expect they'll resist you. They have made up their minds about you, even if you have not."

"But I'm _terrible_ at this."

"This army raised itself, hm? The Orleasians simply decided to stop bickering and unite for a common cause?" He feigned a yawn. "I suppose it was fate that buried Corypheus' army at Haven?"

Misamahl'len returned to the bed, but not before scooping up the dagger from the floor. Resting elbows on his knees, he turned it in his hands. "It's going to happen again. I'm going to fail them."

"And to think, had I not failed in Ferelden, I would not be here today."

The boy watched him from the corner of his eye. "But that was just you. No one got hurt."

"Oh? The Crows do not let desertion go so easily. They found me eventually, before the archdemon was slain. They sent men, women, who I knew. Friends, or so I had thought. They gave me a choice – return, or die with the Wardens."

"I'm guessing that didn't work out so well for them."

His smile was wistful. It had been many years since he'd thought of Taliesen. Soon enough his dead friends would outweigh the living. "As I said, the Grey Wardens can take care of themselves."

"Then where are they now? The Wardens, the others who fought with you?"

Zevran shrugged. "We drifted, each in their own way. Such things are bound to happen. A pity I did not realize that I had left myself nowhere else to go, not until it was too late."

Misamahl'len smirked, still looking down at the dagger twisting in his hands. "I guess I know the feeling." His grip tightened on the hilt, his knuckles turning white. "This is all that's left."

"Of your mother? So you say." He inclined his head, catching the boy's eye. "We were young, yes, and it was brief, but I loved her, too. Perhaps the dagger is all you have left of her, but all I have is you."

Misamahl'len smiled – a true smile and real – but his lips twisted slowly into a smirk. "I'm not going to hug you."

"No one has to know."

"Because it's not going to happen."

Zevran scooted closer. "Come, rest your head in my bosom. I do not mind."

"Stop! Creators, Morrigan was right. You're relentless."

"Aha, so she has spoken of me. It is good to know she is not entirely resistant to my charm."

Misamahl'len laughed. Then he stopped, as if surprised by the sound. He winced, still pained, and took a deep breath to steady himself. "I suppose you want me to open the door now?"

"It would be a start."

"To what?"

Zevran stood, offering him a hand. "That, my boy, is up to you."


	4. Epilogue

Zevran stopped dead, staring down into the valley below them. "Tell me this is not the surprise you promised."

Glancing back at him, Misamahl'len smirked. "Something wrong, old man? I thought you and the Hero of Ferelden killed plenty of dragons."

"That, dear Herald, was a matter of necessity. We did not _hunt_ them."

"I told you not to call me that."

Dorian stepped between them, readying his staff. "Our Inquisitor has developed something of a mad streak, ever since he started training with that Knight-Enchanter. The idea of mages fighting from the fore just seems so..."

"Messy?" Zevran supplied helpfully.

"You should see the sort of filth he tracks home. Silk was not made to take such punishment."

"Ah, and I have lost too many good boots in the dispatching of vigorous bleeders." He looked to Misamahl'len. "Could we not simply sneak around it? It would certainly spare our good looks."

Dorian nodded. "A wise man, your father."

Misamahl'len rolled his eyes. "At least Bull's still with me. Right, Bull?"

The Iron Bull already had his axe in hand, staring hungrily at the beast below them. His response was half a growl. "Best. Day. Ever."

Misamahl'len grinned at the other elf. "See? And you wanted to spend more time together."

"A guilt trip, is it?" Zevran chuckled, reluctantly readying his blades. "As you wish, then."

The Iron Bull straightened suddenly, staring down at him with an eager grin. "We could try that thing you said you'd let me try."

"You will have to be more specific, my friend. I promised to let you try a great many things."

The Qunari laughed, lifting him bodily.

"Oh, no."

"C'mon, Varric won't let me do it. Neither will Sera."

"How sensible of them." Zevran looked down and saw Misamahl'len smiling up at him. With a groan, he settled back on the Bull's shoulder. "Fine. Just... let us get a bit closer before you launch me toward certain death, yes?"

But they did not die. After a somewhat undignified flight onto the beast's back, Zevran found himself lost to the rhythm of the battle, laughing with the familiar thrill of it. The Iron Bull drew the beast's attention, while Misamahl'len and Dorian worked their magics. He had to admit that the Inquisitor's glowing sword _was_ rather impressive. He had known warriors who could not wield a blade quite so well. Zevran smiled to himself. Was this… fatherly pride?

But the dragon had children of her own. When she summoned them, three rushed straight at the Inquisitor. Dropping from the dragon's back, Zevran landed on the nearest, driving his blade down through the creature's skull.

Misamahl'len smirked. "Not bad. But I had it."

"So much for gratitude." Zevran tsked. "What did those Dalish teach you?"

The boy scowled, thrusting his blade forward. Zevran ducked instinctively as it passed over his shoulder, watching as it cleaved the head from the dragonling rearing up behind him. Misamahl'len shrugged. "A few things."

"Good to see you can handle a blade, at least. Even if it is imaginary."

Rushing past them, the Iron Bull guffawed.

Misamahl'len spun to meet another dragonling, putting his back to Zevran's. Together they turned, facing down the creatures. The boy smirked back at him over his shoulder. "Careful you don't strain something, old man."

Soon enough, the dragonlings were dead. As their mother roared, Zevran's eyes roamed up the length of her. "So this is the plan, then? Hack at the beast's legs until it falls down?"

Misamahl'len shrugged, slashing at the creature's belly. "Pretty much."

He shook his head. "No sense of artistry. If you are going to do a job, why not do it well?"

"Let me guess – you did things differently during the Blight?"

For answer, Zevran leapt onto the dragon's leg, driving his blade into the soft flesh behind its knee and using the leverage to swing himself up onto the creature's back. It snapped at him, but he was already running for the neck, grabbing for the spiny ridge on the back of its head. With a final grunt, he hauled himself up and drove one of his daggers into its eye. The beast howled, shaking him off, but he landed lightly, rolling out of the way. He righted himself just in time to see the dragon stagger, giving Misamahl'len the opportunity to open its throat.

Dorian's laughter floated across the battlefield. "Terrible show-offs, the both of you." They turned to him with twin smirks, which only made him laugh harder.

Misamahl'len shook his head, giving Zevran a bemused smile. "Maybe you _do_ have a point."

Zevran dropped into a bow, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the sudden appearance of the Iron Bull, scorched and bloody but grinning like a madman. Again, he lifted him, but this time he simply let him dangle, those hungry eyes roaming over him. "Hmm... that was nice work, Crow."

"It does get the blood pumping." Zevran glanced down, arching a brow. "In a manner of speaking."

Misamahl'len stepped up behind him, sharing a smile with Dorian as he clapped a hand on Zevran's shoulder. "Did I mention how much Bull _loves_ dragon slaying?"

 

 

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